


well, this is odd

by serendipitiness



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: (Underhill), Andrew is smooth, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fluff, Lorenzo is a well-intentioned dork, M/M, and everybody is thriving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 21:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18978922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipitiness/pseuds/serendipitiness
Summary: “You should be High Warlock of Brooklyn again,” Lorenzo  offers between pursed lips without preamble. “Consider it my wedding gift to you.”Magnus raises an eyebrow and swallows a bite of lemon summer berry cake with vanilla mousse. “I can’t tell how serious you are about this, considering how constipated you look right now.”“It’s the dead flies still in my digestive tract,” Lorenzo deadpans. “Do you want it or not, Bane?”(in which Lorenzo might be High Warlock of Brooklyn but that doesn’t mean he has a single clue when it comes to dealing with all of this)





	well, this is odd

So here’s the thing: Lorenzo ends up staying on as the High Warlock of Brooklyn.

It's an odd experience, in the aftermath of Magnus Bane’s return from Edom, thinking about who was going to take the role. Lorenzo’s not stupid -- he is quite aware that he only got the job in the first place because the warlock council was having a pissing contest with the Seelies and felt like demoting Magnus would be sound punishment. He also knows that he’s nowhere near as popular as Magnus is; not many are, and on a personal note, Lorenzo doesn’t feel like investigating why, because he’s pretty sure it’s just going to be a blow to his self-esteem to do so.

He’s always wanted to be a high warlock -- _desperately_ , to a degree that he’ll never disclose. But in a moment of inexplicable generosity (he wonders if the stale, unfiltered air in Edom got to his brain), he walks up to Magnus during his wedding reception, while he’s standing alone by the food with a plate of hors d'oeuvres and two slices of cake in hand.

“You should be High Warlock of Brooklyn again,” he offers between pursed lips without preamble. “Consider it my wedding gift to you.”

Magnus raises an eyebrow and swallows a bite of lemon summer berry cake with vanilla mousse. “I can’t tell how serious you are about this, considering how constipated you look right now.”

“It’s the dead flies still in my digestive tract,” Lorenzo deadpans. “Do you want it or not, Bane?”

Everything is quiet for a minute, then: “I don’t think so,” Magnus answers, and Lorenzo blinks.

“You -- what?”

“I’ve had many good years as high warlock, and in the aftermath of everything that’s happened, I think I’ll appreciate time to enjoy my marriage, at least for a while. I think you’ve done a fine job so far of protecting the warlocks of Brooklyn,” Magnus says, and lays a hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder. “Your pettiness aside.”

Lorenzo, much to his chagrin, splutters unbecomingly. “Excuse me, Bane. I resent the implication that my actions were _petty_.” He pauses. “Though I cannot deny that they did nearly cost you your life.”

“As mine and my father's did yours,” Magnus say evenly, his gaze disarmingly wise for a face still young. It reminds Lorenzo why people talk of Bane the way they do -- with fear and respect that might seem unwarranted until you looked past the glitz and glamour in favor of the fortitude beneath. “I’d say we’re even, aren’t we?”

Lorenzo manages an unsophisticated, “If you say so.”

“I do, Lorenzo. I really do.” Magnus grins, then calmly, adds, “Also, it’s Lightwood-Bane as of two and a half hours ago. Don’t get it wrong in the future,” before breezing past Lorenzo, eyes sparkling now that they’ve landed on his husband, who’s apologizing to Jia Penhallow for stepping on her toes.

*

It’s strange and surreal to wake up in his home the morning after that and go on like everything’s as it was.

Lorenzo -- Lorenzo Rey, a distinguished warlock from Toledo, born in the Siglo del Oro, muse to El Greco and Murillo -- had allowed a shadowhunter to draw a _rune_ on him. He had shared his powers with Alec Lightwood, the Head of the New York Institute (a _Lightwood_ \-- unbelievable). He had traveled to Edom. _He had shot a fireball at Lilith herself_.

All to save Magnus Bane, whose life appears to have been harder than Lorenzo previously thought.

And now Lorenzo is back here in his mansion, drinking cold pressed kale-parsley-apple-ginger juice after his morning pilates session, the way he likes to do, as if everything is _normal_ , as if he hadn't just helped prevent the apocalypse.

His iPhone buzzes in his pocket, and Lorenzo takes a swig of his juice as he checks the screen.

[From: Unknown Number] _Hey Lorenzo, this is Andrew. It was great meeting you yesterday. Want to grab coffee sometime with me?_

Lorenzo spits his juice all over his Nike sweat-wicking shirt.

*

The last person Lorenzo dated was named Remi Piggs, and they spent the entirety of their life attempting to be a modern renaissance person, which Lorenzo quite enjoyed. Remi had liked Lorenzo’s long hair, confidence, and his singing voice in the shower. Lorenzo had admired Remi’s dedication, their passion, and the way they flung their hands in the air when talking about the audacity of macaroni yellow.

The two of them had been together for five years before parting ways. Lorenzo still keeps the little Picasso-inspired portrait Remi painted of him hung up above his desk.

That had been twelve years ago.

Which is to say, Lorenzo doesn’t date much. This can also partially be attributed to the fact that Lorenzo doesn’t go out either, preferring listening to Chopin and watching painting conservation videos on YouTube at home instead of venturing out into the city. It’s not that he dislikes people; it’s just that he dislikes _most_ people. It’s something he’d had to fight in his bid to win the high warlockship -- the amount of brown nosing he’d had to do by way of hosting parties and dinners is horrifying to remember -- but what it really means at the end of the day is that there aren’t a lot of chances for him to meet people new.

Let alone _shadowhunters_.

Underhill... or, well, Andrew (“I go by Underhill at work, but this isn’t work, is it?”) had been disarmingly charming at the wedding reception. Lorenzo doesn’t recall in specific detail what they’d discussed once they’d sat down at one of those little side tables. Politics and New York City, maybe, with a side tangent about opinions on salmon lox.

And, of course, the blissful couple they’d gathered for.

“They’re inspiring. Truly,” Andrew had said as he gestured at Magnus and Alec. “Alec is why I came to work at this institute, you know. The moment I heard about what he was trying to accomplish, I had to be here.”

When he looked where Andrew was pointing, Lorenzo saw the Lightwood-Banes in the middle of the dance floor again, as they were at the start of the night, except now both of their tuxedo jackets were off, both more than a little drunk. Alec had been groping Magnus’ ass, Magnus had literal happy blue sparks emitting from his body, and every guest had been looking on with pleased horror.

“Inspiring indeed,” Lorenzo had said wryly. “New York’s premier politicians.”

Andrew had laughed, a low, rough noise that had Lorenzo gripping his wine glass tighter. “If there was ever a night for them to let loose, it’d be tonight. Shadowhunters aren’t good at finding happiness for themselves; I think these two have taught us it’s okay, even if it’s in the most unlikely of places with the most unlikely of people.”

Lorenzo had sipped his cabernet and stared at Andrew’s golden hair.

Then Andrew had leaned in closer, then said, “You know. A man with a man. A shadowhunter with a warlock. It’s so much more possible now than it ever used to be.”

“Alright then,” Lorenzo had said loudly. “I’m going to grab another glass of wine. Would you like anything?”

Andrew had smiled wide. “Your number, if you’d like.”

*

Lorenzo doesn’t know what to do, so he ignores the text.

Instead, he portals to a store just outside New Orleans to go about procuring supplies for an apothecary. He’ll be the first to admit that his first few weeks as High Warlock of Brooklyn had been something of a joke. He hadn’t gotten a lot of requests for help -- likely due to both general unrest in the shadow world, on top of a small rebellion in New York’s warlock community for having lost their beloved leader -- and so Lorenzo had neglected to prepare for the job properly.

He can’t forget how awestruck he’d been upon entering Magnus’ apothecary for the first time. For everything Magnus’ apartment lacked by way of proper, respectable art pieces, it made up for here. The abundance of materials, the quality of his supplies, the sheer power imbued into the walls... it had been any practicing warlock’s wet dream.

“Whatcha lookin’ for?” the warlock behind the counter of Green Remedies asks. Her name is Babette and she’s surprisingly unglamoured, the shark’s teeth in her mouth glinting dangerously under the light. Lorenzo wants to ask her if her teeth fall out all the time, but he refrains. Instead, he hands her a list, which she takes promptly.

“You Bane’s replacement, eh? Lorenzo Rey?” she wonders, and glares at him when he says _yes_.

“Ha. Good luck with that, Rey. Bane’s a good one. The best.”

“It seems I’ve heard that all my life,” Lorenzo scoffs with a slightly bitter roll of an eye. It's hard, even after reconciling with Magnus, to forget centuries of resentment.

“He always paid on time, talked all polite, and looked pretty at the same time. He has good arms, that man. Looks like he could lift you up and throw you on a bed no problem, you know?” Babette continues blithely, waggling her eyebrows. “Next time you see him, though, do me a favor. Tell him he’s a total dumbass for marrying a shadowhunter, then tell him I’m happy for him. In that order. You gotta tell him he’s a dumbass first.”

Lorenzo nearly chokes. “Right. Of course, ma’am,” he ends up saying, then watches as Babette scrambles around her shop, gathering the things on his list.

*

Three weeks later, Lorenzo maneuvers his way through the patrons at Little Collins. His eyes might not be able to identify the person he’s looking for, but his magic can: it’s drawn toward the back corner of the cafe, where a heavy, substantial swirl of power waits, so irritably _obvious_ that Lorenzo can taste the blue of it on the back of his tongue.

He walks swiftly in that direction and sits down at the table where his companion is waiting, then announces, “Babette Green wanted me to tell you that you are, to quote,  ‘a total dumbass for marrying a nephilim, and that she’s happy for you.’”

Magnus snorts, then takes a sip of the tea he’d ordered before Lorenzo arrived. His shoulders shake with the movement, sending the golden epaulettes on his jacket swaying. “Classic Babette. She’s never neglected to make me laugh in the centuries I’ve frequented her shop. She’s also got the best kelp fronds in the northern hemisphere, which helps.”

Lorenzo nods. “I appreciate you agreeing to meet. Your experience will be helpful, particularly since it’s been near half a century since I’ve regularly brewed potions.” Contrary to what others might think, he isn’t above asking for help when he needs it, and he likes to think that he and Magnus have reached an -- understanding, of sorts.

Magnus taps his lip, his many rings glinting under the edison bulbs in the cafe. “Make sure to over-stock on  goosegrass and dandelion root. Requests for potions that vision correct and repel paper cuts are far more popular than you might guess. Also, if anybody asks you for something to help them sleep, tell them to just take those blackberry melatonin gummies. Not everything needs to be solved with magic.”

Lorenzo magics a Post-it pad into his pocket then takes it out. “ _Goosegrass and dandelion. Sleep gummies_ ,” he writes diligently.

“This isn't potion related, but I’d also suggest hosting quarterly glamouring workshops in addition to ad hoc appointments. There aren’t that many young warlocks these days, but between them and the surprising number of adults who still struggle with constant glamour maintenance, you’ll get good attendance. It's not a well-paying initiative -- hell, it's not a paying initiative at all the way I ran it -- but it's important. I usually averaged around five to six warlocks at each session.”

_Glamour lessons. Qtrly. No pay?_

“Also, before I forget -- I know you’re aware of this already, but I need to stress... no love potions, no soul potions, none of that. Ever. Last time I made one of those I ended up giving it to the mother of all demons and nearly caused the apocalypse. Don’t be me.”

Lorenzo’s eyes widen. “Excuse me. You did what?”

Magnus waves a hand carelessly. “The details aren’t important. Just don’t ever do that. Again, not everything needs to be solved with magic -- problems of the heart or world destruction included.”

 _No love/soul_ _potions_ , he writes, then concentrates a little harder on everything written on his little yellow Post-it. “There are aspects of the job I hadn’t fully considered,” he confesses in a moment of undesired weakness.

“The high warlock position isn’t just a formality,” Magnus continues on, a finger lacquered in deep blue tracing the rim of his teacup. It seems he had no problem reading the troubled expression on Lorenzo's face. “It’s a difficult job. There’s very legitimate work to be done; regional conferences to attend, cabinet meetings to speak up at, people to help even when all you’d rather do is take a nap or have a drink. Not that that really stopped me on the drinking part, but -- well.”

Lorenzo grimaces inwardly. For the first time since he’s claimed it, the weight of his new role falls heavy on his shoulders, and he wonders how Magnus did this for so long, making it look so easy when in practice he was carrying the burden of every single warlock in the city.

“Lorenzo, the fact that you invited me out for tea to talk about this is the first step. You care. That’s more than many can say. It’s why you’ll do a great job.”

It’s a kind thing to say, but Lorenzo doesn’t know if it’s true. It’s not that he doesn’t care about other warlocks; it’s more so that he wanted this job because he wanted the title, rather than wanting to do good. He’s motivated to do this right, but that doesn’t stop the sour feeling of guilt swells in his chest.

“Rey, you’ll be fine. Don’t look so stressed -- it’ll give you forehead wrinkles, and I can tell you don't follow any ten step skincare routines,” Magnus says bluntly. “Besides, you’ll have me to help you -- I still _live_ in Brooklyn, for god’s sake. Add to that the fact that the Head of the New York Institute actually likes you nowadays and you’re good to go. Robert couldn’t stand me for the years we worked together.”

“Didn't help that his son met you and ended up wanting to get in your absurdly tight pants,” Lorenzo mutters.

“He did, didn’t he?” Magnus answers gleefully. “He’s very good at it too, you know. Quite a natural.”

“Shut up, Magnus. Asmodeus would be embarrassed.”

Magnus throws his head back and laughs loudly. The motion catches the attention of the cafe’s other patrons; their eyes linger obviously on Magnus’ face, his makeup and his clothes and the way he commands attention without even having to try. A part of Lorenzo is jealous of his natural charisma, the way people can’t help but feel drawn to him. Magnus has had this ability his entire life; maybe it’s something he cultivated, maybe it’s something inherited from the most dangerous prince of them all, but either way it’s something Lorenzo has strived and failed to emulate. It isn’t fair, he thinks with something close to petulance. But then again --

Lorenzo shrugs. There are some things he can learn, and some that he can’t.

He won’t be the same kind of high warlock that Magnus was, and that’ll have to make do.

*

A fire message arrives on the day after Lorenzo meets Magnus.

_We will be convening tonight at 8 PM for a cabinet meeting at the New York Institute. For those attendees who haven’t yet been present for one of these sessions, feel free to reach out with any questions or plan to arrive early for discussion. I hope this will be the start of many fruitful meetings to come._

_A. Lightwood-Bane_

The only thing that Lorenzo thinks is: _no_.

The meeting is happening at the New York Institute. Where all the shadowhunters in the city work. Which includes the blond shadowhunter. _Andrew_.

Whose text message from nearly a month ago Lorenzo still hasn’t responded to.

It's not that Lorenzo hadn't wanted to. Multiple (seventeen) times in the past few weeks, between setting up his calendar and a few introduction meetings with local warlocks, he's found himself staring at that text message, rereading the casual invitation, wondering if it means what his brain thinks it could mean or if it means what his brain _also_ thinks it could mean.

The bottom line is that Lorenzo doesn't know if he wants this at all. He's on the verge of starting his first legitimate term as Brooklyn's high warlock. Does he want to distract himself by dating somebody? A shadowhunter, at that?

Does he want to date _Andrew_?

He frets about for the duration of the afternoon as he brews a calming draught for a mundane who’s discovered she has the Sight. Like many an overthinker, he ends up worrying about it so much that he doesn’t actually do anything about it, and by the time 7:56 PM rolls around, all Lorenzo has managed to do is throw on a tailored velvet suit, smooth down his hair, and portal himself to the front steps of the New York Institute before his grandfather clock chimes.

He pushes on one heavy wooden door, and slips into the lobby.

His gaze lands immediately on Isabelle Lightwood, who’s standing, brilliantly beautiful as ever, next to her brother. Alec Lightwood ( _Lightwood-Bane, Lightwood-Bane_ ) looks happy and surprisingly tan; Lorenzo assumes it’s a result of Magnus’ magic, because he’s quite certain that Alec would have otherwise burned under the South Pacific sun. They’re talking to the new alpha -- something Roberts, he thinks her name is -- who’s looking at the ring on Alec’s finger before she ends up punching him in the arm.

“Mr. Rey?”

Lorenzo freezes, then turns around in what feels like slow motion.

Andrew is there, striding in past the Lightwoods. He’s dressed more casually now than he was at the wedding, of course, in a dark gray button-up rolled up at the sleeves to reveal strong forearms with unknown runes peeking through. His jeans are slim, dark, lengthening his already-long legs, and he’s smiling at Lorenzo, eyes sparkling, and --

Right.

“Andrew,” Lorenzo says.

Andrew grins. “I’m Underhill at work, Mr. Rey,” he answers warmly, “but I’ll let that slide.”

Lorenzo feels the corner of his mouth quirk up in a reluctant smile, then says, “I apologize, Mr. Underhill.” Steeling himself, he adds, “And I apologize as well for not responding to your… note.”

“I was a little disappointed,” Andrew says easily. “I was going to follow up, but it seemed a little much if you weren’t interested.”

“I’m not,” Lorenzo blurts out before he can stop himself.

Andrew looks up, blue eyes wide, blond lashes pale and nearly invisible against his skin.

“Not what?”

Lorenzo swallows. “Not not interested. I mean -- excuse me. What I mean to say is that I’m interested.”

 _You are?_ Lorenzo nearly asks himself, because he hadn’t exactly been certain that he was. But the truth of the matter that he’s been avoiding is that he absolutely _is_ interested; interested in getting to know this nephilim with the low voice and teasing words and the unexpected courage to walk up to his boss’s new husband’s warlock rival at their wedding and flirt with him. Finding himself attracted to a shadowhunter is incomprehensible, yet here he is.

Attracted.

“Well then,” Andrew says brightly, expression alight. “In that case, how about coffee tomorrow, then? 10AM? Meet here then we can walk over?”

“How about dinner, instead?” Lorenzo offers. It’s all just a little easier, now that he knows what he wants. “There’s a steakhouse I’ve been going to in Williamsburg that has the best steak all forty-seven years I’ve gone. Shall we convene here at 7 PM, and then we can portal over?”

“Alright then. Benefits of hanging out with a warlock,” Andrew laughs.

“Benefits of hanging out with _me_ ,” Lorenzo quips immediately.

They lapse into silence, and Lorenzo is surprised to discover it’s comfortable. It’s a little unexpected; in their limited interaction, Andrew has filled the silence with wit and banter, but it seems he’s just as good at keeping quiet as anything else. There aren’t many with whom it’s like this for him this early on in an acquaintance. Immortality is always a lonely thing, for any vampire or warlock or seelie, and to find any kindred spirit is a rare thing indeed.

“You should probably go,” Andrew finally says. He jerks his chin in the direction of the ops room. “The meeting's going to start soon and tardiness isn't a good look on day one.”

Lorenzo exhales in amusement. “Of course. I'll see you tomorrow then, Andrew.”

With that, he turns and strides directly toward Isabelle and Alec. The latter is staring at him quizzically, brows drawn and one hazel eye twitching rapidly.

“Is everything alright?” Lorenzo asks.

Alec finally blinks. “Did you just call him _Andrew_?”

*

The uncontrollable blush disappears from Lorenzo’s cheeks the moment he enters that open hall where the banners of their people hang from the ceiling.

This first cabinet meeting that he attends is -- difficult.

It makes him feel old, to watch the werewolf girl’s eyes glow green at four points in the conversation, to hear the crunch of the table under the fist of the young vampire whose name Lorenzo can’t even remember, to witness Alec Lightwood-Bane act like a wise leader at the ripe old age of twenty-six. When he and Meliorn trade glances over the table, there’s a very real edge of resigned, hostile amusement in their eyes.

It’s like Magnus said. It isn’t easy. Most of the people in the room don’t like each other, and barely any even have any respect for each other.  It doesn’t help that racial conflicts have existed in the Shadow World for longer than anybody can recall, rooted deep in their histories, taught to every individual as fact.

“Your proposed policies clearly don’t do enough for werewolves,” he hears the alpha say to the vampire as he comes back to the present. “I find that concerning, considering the way our people last interacted. Does the name Heidi ring any bells?”

Lorenzo rubs his temples, and pulls his phone out from his pocket to make reservations for dinner tomorrow.

*

Dinner is --

Dinner is --

God. Dinner is _fantastic._ In ways Lorenzo never could have anticipated.

Leslie -- the maitre d' -- places them in a back corner of the restaurant, Lorenzo’s standard spot, except this time she looks teasingly at Lorenzo when they sit down. It’s quieter, back here, dividers creating the illusion of intimacy and privacy.

“I hope you're having a lovely evening,” she says. “It’s good to see you back. The usual, Lorenzo?”

Lorenzo turns to Andrew, who looks handsome under the glow of yellow lights, and says, “I most often order the ribeye with a glass or two of an Argentinian Malbec. The dry rub is excellent and their wine is the best I’ve had in this city in a hundred -- days. Shall we upgrade to share a medium-rare porterhouse and have a bottle instead?”

Andrew smiles warmly, and under the table, their feet brush against each other. “That’d be great.”

Leslie returns after just a moment with the wine, its green bottle shining as she pours for Lorenzo, letting him sniff the heady aroma under his nose. Carefully he twirls his glass, letting liquid cling to the walls, watching it slowly edge back down, before closing his eyes and taking a sip, first pressing the wine to the roof of his mouth before letting it settle on his tongue.

“It’s absolute perfection,” he tells Leslie. He turns back to Andrew. “I normally prefer an Old Fashioned, but I’ve been spoiled by my own recipe that I make back at home.”

“I’m partial to beer, but I’d try your Old Fashioned,” Andrew says.

“Ah. You would.” Lorenzo wishes he could respond more eloquently, but any additional words stop in his throat at the intent in Andrew’s eyes.

Andrew grins. “I would.”

“So. You’re Alec Lightwood’s head of security,” Lorenzo says nonsensically. There’s an odd realization, then, that every area they have in common is potentially a little contentious.

“And you’re the High Warlock of Brooklyn.”

“I am. And well, I --” He pauses, not quite knowing what would be right to say.

Andrew continues without hesitation like he knows exactly what’s weighing on Lorenzo’s mind. “And you’re also the man who took Magnus Bane’s position, who, rumor has it, prevented other warlocks from helping him. Magnus Bane, my boss’ husband.”

“Lightwood-Bane,” Lorenzo corrects faintly, stomach sinking into the dirt beneath his toes.

“Tell me about that. I’m curious,” Andrew says, and leans forward, propping his elbows up on the cream tablecloth. The motion squishes his cheeks a little, and Lorenzo would laugh if he wasn’t feeling anxious butterflies in his stomach.

“What could I possibly say, shadowhunter?” he asks. Normally he’d be more defensive, but tonight, he finds himself tired of that. He’s settled things with Magnus, and the idea of having to tell this man seated across from him why he behaved like he was twenty-three instead of four hundred and eighty-four doesn’t appeal.  “What if my reasons were selfish and petty?”

Andrew shrugs, and fiddles with the shiny silver spoon in front of him. “Then they were. Aren’t we all allowed to be a little selfish now and then, a little petty?”

“I have a hard time believing you’re ever selfish or petty,” Lorenzo says.

“When I was fifteen, the boy I had a crush on at the Shadowhunter Academy asked Jane Dearborn to be his girlfriend, so for the next three years until I graduated, I stole all her hair ties from her backpack in revenge.”

Lorenzo can’t stifle his chuckle. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

Andrew chuckles, merrily enough that Lorenzo can’t help but join him, then reaches his hand out to glance his fingers over Lorenzo’s knuckles. The touch sends a shock through Lorenzo’s system, a whisper flame of want curling up his spine.

“I don’t know you yet,” Andrew says quietly, “but I’d like to.”

“And I you,” Lorenzo responds. ‘“Despite how nonsensical everything about this seems to me. My dear mentor, Ximena, would be dumbfounded to find me here tonight with you -- I hope you understand what I mean when I say no offense is directly meant for you.”

“None taken,” Andrew says, then quirks his lips as he rests his chin on his palm again. “Will you tell me about your mentor, then?” he prompts again.

And over steak and wine and a shared chocolate cake, Lorenzo does.

*

Two days later, Lorenzo finds himself struggling to wrench his thoughts away from the memory of how Andrew had held his hand as they’d walked back to the Institute. It had been cliche in that embarrassingly sappy, mundane movie way, where their fingers brushed every five steps until the two of them just snagged onto each other’s hands and didn’t let go until a fairly involved kiss goodbye on the steps of the Institute.

(Of course that’s all that happened. He doesn't put out on first dates, excuse you.)

He has to stop though, because little Jamie Sharp is here in his mansion, holding his mother’s hand, and trembling as the budding antlers on his head fritz in and out of existence.

“Alright then,” Lorenzo says with false brightness as he claps his palms together. His voice emerges louder than intended. “I’m Lorenzo Rey, High Warlock of Brooklyn, and I’m going to help you today.”

Jamie whimpers, and buries his face in his mother’s floral cardigan.

“Oh god,” Lorenzo says out loud, then remembers to shut up. He blinks, and watches as Jamie’s mother kneels down closer to him and whispers something in his ear. Her hands are gentle on his ruddy cheeks, and she uses her thumb to brush the stray tear at the corner of his eyes.

“-- nice man is going to help you,” he catches her saying. “It’s okay. I’ll be here the whole time.”

For a moment, he remembers his own mother -- her long hair pinned with semi-precious jewels, her face worn with exhaustion as she watched over for him. They’d been in Madrid together when she’d passed on, measles claiming her life when Lorenzo had been eleven. The way this woman is caring for her child, now, this mundane who’d never intended to have a warlock baby... it’s a rare thing to witness.

“Exactly,” he says out loud, a little nonsensical, then crouches down next to Jamie. “Your mother will be here the entire time, and in the meantime, you and I are going to figure out how to go from this --”

Lorenzo lets go of his glamour for a moment, and smiles a little when Jamie’s wide eyes rove over the yellow-green shine of the scales on Lorenzo’s hands and up his neck from the collar of his favorite Valentino shirt.

“-- to this.” The scales shift into tan skin with a little _thwip_ that makes Jamie startle a little.

The little boy ducks his head, then steps forward, a little closer to Lorenzo. “Okay,” he says.

It takes a long time. Lorenzo ends up cancelling a ward check-in for a local vampire’s home as well as that night’s date with Andrew. Two hours in, when Jamie’s managed to maintain his glamour for a whole nineteen minutes, they break for lunch, and Lorenzo summons in some fried chicken from Arnold’s Country Kitchen in Nashville for Jamie to try. It’s another two hours later that Jamie manages to hide his little antlers for a whole thirty minutes.

“You did great today,” Lorenzo says, and pats Jamie on the shoulder. He means it.

Jamie nods solemnly, then holds onto his mother’s hand as they walk out of the mansion.

“Thank you, Mr. Lorenzo,” he says, and Lorenzo fails to stifle the grin that emerges on his face.

*

“He called me _Mr. Lorenzo_ , Andrew. I’m quite serious when I say I nearly wanted to cry. The last time a child made me cry was 1994 when she pulled my ponytail too hard.”

They’re at a Greek lunch spot in the Bronx this time, a place Andrew had picked for a casual fourth date. After profuse apologies from Lorenzo for cancelling a few nights back, he finds himself unable stop talking about that absurd little pitter-patter in his chest when he’d been able to help Jamie.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt so _helpful_ before, truly. At first when Magnus told me he didn’t get paid for these services, I didn’t quite understand, but -- I know, I know, that makes me sound horrid, but the way Jamie looked when he was trying to keep his glamour on, with his face all scrunched up. It was too much, even for me.”

Andrew doesn’t reply immediately, though his eyes are focused, warm, and attentive. Then, after a large bite of his gyros wrap, Andrew asks, “Did you know nephilim only love once? Fiercely?”

“Jesus Christ, Andrew,” Lorenzo yelps, and accidentally jabs his falafel so hard it rolls onto the floor. “Where in the world did that come from?”

“Just thought it was relevant,” Andrew answers, and smiles knowingly before taking another bite of his wrap.

*

In the end, it turns out that yes -- it is, indeed, quite relevant.

*

The fire message arrives ten months after the wedding.

Lorenzo is in the middle of picking an outfit for the night. He’s a little tired, having just met with Isabelle Lightwood to discuss more frequent one-on-one meetings now that she’s leading the Institute, but he’d promised Andrew that he’d take him to sightsee for the night in Buenos Aires before grabbing dinner (he also wants to meet up with an artist who does stellar couples portraits, but that’s a separate issue). It’s when Lorenzo is in the middle of applying a spritz of cologne that he hears that telltale crackle, and his hand shoots up on instinct to catch the burning piece of parchment.

He reads:

_In our constant effort to ensure proper representation of all peoples in the governing bodies of the shadow world, it is the honor of the Inquisitor to formally announce the creation of a new high warlock position -- in Alicante. The role of this individual will be to not only serve as a voice of the warlocks in legislative debate, but also to support the implementation of such legislation globally. Due to his extensive experience previously serving as the High Warlock of Brooklyn and expertise in negotiation between peoples, Magnus Lightwood-Bane has been designated the first High Warlock of Alicante and will begin his appointment immediately. If there are any enquiries regarding the change, please send a fire message to the office of the Inquisitor._

“What the heck?” Lorenzo blurts out, and the letter in his hand smokes.

**Author's Note:**

> warlocks like medium-rare steaks and that's that. come say hi on tumblr [ @laughingmagnus](https://laughingmagnus.tumblr.com/).


End file.
